Robert Bruce and the Spider

Not in Prosperity's broad light
Can Reason justly scan
The sterling worth which, viewed aright,
Most dignifies the man;
Favoured at once by wind and tide,
A skill-less pilot well may guide
The bark in safety on;
Yet, when his harbour he has gained,
He who no conflict hath sustained.
No meed has fairly won.

But in Adversity's dark hour
Of peril and of fear,
When clouds above the vessel lower,
With scarce one star to cheer;
When winds are loud, and waves are high,
And ocean to a timid eye
Appears the seaman's grave;
Amid the conflict calm, unmoved,
By Truth's unerring test is proved
The skilful and the brave.

For Scotland's and for Freedom's right
The Bruce his part had played:
In five successive fields of fight
Been conquered, not dismayed;
Once more against the English host
His band he led, and once more lost
The meed for which he fought;
And now, from battle faint and worn,
The homeless fugitive forlorn
A hut's lone shelter sought.

And cheerless was that resting place
For him who claimed a throne;
His canopy, devoid of grace,
The rude, rough beams alone;
The heather couch his only bed, —
Yet well I ween had slumber fled
From couch of eider down;
Through darksome night to dawn of day,
Immersed in wakeful thought he lay
Of Scotland and her crown.

The sun rose brightly, and its gleam
Fell on that sleepless bed,
And tinged with light each shapeless beam
Which roofed the lowly shed;
When looking up with wistful eye,
The Bruce beheld a spider try
His filmy thread to fling
From beam to beam of that rude cot;
And well the insect's toilsome lot
Taught Scotland's future king.

Six times his gossamery thread
The wary spider threw:
In vain the filmy line was sped;
For powerless, or untrue
Each aim appeared, and back recoiled
The patient insect, six times foiled,
And yet unconquered still;
And soon the Bruce, with eager eye,
Saw him prepare once more to try
His courage, strength, and skill.

One effort more, its seventh, and last!
The hero hailed the sign!
And on the wished-for beam hung fast
That slender, silky line;
Slight as it was, his spirit caught
The more than omen, for his thought
The lesson well could trace,
Which even " he who runs may read,"
That Perseverance gains its meed,
And Patience wins the race.

Is it a tale of mere romance?
Its moral is the same;
A light and trivial circumstance?
Some thought it still may claim.
Art thou a father? teach thy son
Never to deem that all is done,
While aught remains untried;
To hope, though every hope seem crost;
And when his bark is tempest-tost,
Still calmly to confide.

Hast thou been long and often foiled
By adverse winds and seas,
And vainly struggled, vainly toiled,
For what some win with ease?
Yet bear up heart and hope and will,
Nobly resolved to struggle still.
With patience persevere;
Knowing when darkest seems the night
The dawning of morn's glorious light
Is swiftly drawing near.

Art thou a Christian? shall the frown
Of fortune cause dismay? —
The Bruce but won an earthly crown,
Which long hath pass'd away;
For thee a heavenly crown awaits,
For thee are oped the pearly gates,
Prepared the deathless palm; —
But bear in mind, that only those
Who persevere unto the close,
Can join in Victory's psalm.